The Inner Circle

As soon as Arnold's eyes got accustomed to the light, he saw that he
was in a large, lofty room with panelled walls adorned with a number of
fine paintings. As he looked at these his gaze was fascinated by them,
even more than by the strange company which was assembled round the long
table that occupied the middle of the room.

Though they were all manifestly the products of the highest form of art,
their subjects were dreary and repulsive beyond description. There was a
horrible realism about them which reminded him irresistibly of the awful
collection of pictorial horrors in the Musée Wiertz, in Brussels--those
works of the brilliant but unhappy genius who was driven into
insanity by the sheer exuberance of his own morbid imagination.

Here was a long line of men and women in chains staggering across a
wilderness of snow that melted away into the horizon without a break.
Beside them rode Cossacks armed with long whips that they used on men
and women alike when their fainting limbs gave way beneath them, and
they were like to fall by the wayside to seek the welcome rest that only
death could give them.

There was a picture of a woman naked to the waist, and tied up to a
triangle in a prison yard, being flogged by a soldier with willow wands,
while a group of officers stood by, apparently greatly interested in the
performance. Another painting showed a poor wretch being knouted to
death in the market-place of a Russian town, and yet another showed a
young and beautiful woman in a prison cell with her face distorted by
the horrible leer of madness, and her little white hands clawing
nervously at her long dishevelled hair.

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Arnold stood for several minutes fascinated by the hideous realism of
the pictures, and burning with rage and shame at the thought that they
were all too terribly true to life, when he was startled out of his
reverie by the same voice that had called them from the dark room saying
to him in English--

"Well, Richard Arnold, what do you think of our little picture gallery?
The paintings are good in themselves, but it may make them more
interesting to you if you know that they are all faithful reproductions
of scenes that have really taken place within the limits of the
so-called civilised and Christian world. There are some here in this
room now who have suffered the torments depicted on those canvases, and
who could tell of worse horrors than even they portray. We should like
to know what you think of our paintings?"

Arnold glanced towards the table in search of Colston, but he had
vanished. Around the long table sat fourteen masked and shrouded forms
that were absolutely indistinguishable one from the other. He could not
even tell whether they were men or women, so closely were their forms
and faces concealed. Seeing that he was left to his own discretion, he
laid the case containing the model, which he had so far kept under his
arm, down on the floor, and, facing the strange assembly, said as
steadily as he could--